


Paris, Pencil on Paper, 2008

by weyfarere



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Clint has hobbies other than archery, Established Relationship, Hidden Talents, Implied Past Violence, M/M, Mentions of past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weyfarere/pseuds/weyfarere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil was gradually becoming acquainted with a completely different version of Barton than anyone could imagine.  And this?  This felt like one of those things that came from Clint’s far distant past.  The things that little boy Clint buried so deep inside it felt like flaying himself open every time he shared them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paris, Pencil on Paper, 2008

**Author's Note:**

> This was briefly inspired by this post on tumblr: http://a-game-of-romance-and-winchester.tumblr.com/post/48494878540/so-let-me-tell-you-about-the-shittiest-parent-on
> 
> It made me think of Hawkeye, because we all know Clint had crappy, crappy parents and I could see this happening to him. I hope the kid from the post grows up to be a superhero, so I wrote a version where he did.
> 
> Warnings for mentions of past abuse. Nothing explicit.

Phil grinned when he saw the smudge over the shiny number three next to his front door.  Only he knew it was intentional –- Clint’s signal to him that he was there, probably slumped on the couch playing on the Xbox that had migrated to Phil’s apartment sometime in the last month.  Clint’s comfort in Phil’s home, his willingness to be there even if Phil wasn’t, was still new enough that it sent a little thrill through Phil every time he opened the front door to find beat-up combat boots tossed to the side.

 

He opened the door, shoulders relaxing that last measure since he’d left that afternoon’s directorial personnel meeting.  He didn’t think he’d be home in time for dinner, much less before six, so he knew Clint wasn’t expecting him.  Phil, however, wasn’t expecting Clint’s whole body to tense when Phil stepped into the living room.  Most people probably wouldn’t have noticed -- it wasn’t the tense posture of a man who sensed danger.  No, this was a carefully restrained stillness born from the desire to be invisible, to not draw attention that might garner abuse for some perceived slight.  It was a posture that Phil saw less and less the longer he knew Clint, the more secure Clint became with his place at SHIELD.

 

Wondering what Clint was doing to feel caught out, Phil casually dropped a kiss to the top of Clint’s head over the back of the couch before detouring to the kitchen to grab something to drink.  Clint would know that his anxiety had been noticed – normally Phil would have joined him on the couch, grumbling about the ridiculousness of the WSC, etc. etc. – but Phil was giving him a chance to regroup.

 

“You’re home early,” Clint called out.  “Did Fury finally send out the kill order on the Council?”

 

“You assume Fury has the ability to locate all the members of the Council,” Phil replied.  “You want something to drink?”

 

“No, thanks, and you can’t tell me Fury doesn’t know everything about those fools, right down to which Starbucks they frequent for their Orange Mocha Frappuccinos.”

 

Phil hummed his amusement, carrying a beer with him back to the living room.  He was surprised to see Clint hadn’t moved.  He was more surprised to see that Clint was sitting with an oversized sketchpad on his lap, pencil twirling anxiously between his fingers.  Phil set his beer bottle on the coffee table before shrugging off his suit jacket and laying it on the arm of the couch.

 

Clint hadn’t made eye contact, but he very casually kept the sketchpad in Phil’s view. It was as blatant an invitation as Clint ever gave.  Phil told himself he was going to rein in any possible reaction, regardless of Clint’s skill.  Too enthusiastic and he knew Clint wouldn’t believe the praise, any hint of censure and this vulnerability would never see the light of day again.

 

And there was no doubt in Phil’s mind that Clint was being vulnerable.  Five years Barton had been at SHIELD, and only in the last two had he begun to open up to anything resembling a friendship with his fellow agents.  When he came into the fold everyone knew of his talent with a bow, his exaggerated tendency toward insubordination, and his circus past.  Now, those who could count him as a friend knew that he was a complete cardsharp, he made the world’s tastiest jambalaya, and he was one of the greatest tacticians on SHIELD’s payroll, though he still refused to take lead on any op.

 

In the last six months, however, Phil was gradually becoming intimately acquainted with a completely different version of Barton than anyone could imagine.  Oh, he’d suspected certain things –- it was Phil’s job, after all, to read people, and he was the best at his job.  But only Phil was allowed to know that the smell of cotton candy and popcorn made him want to vomit, or that the smattering of burn marks just inside his left shoulder blade had nothing to do with shrapnel.  And this?  This felt like one of those things that came from Clint’s far distant past.  The things that little boy Clint buried so deep inside it felt like flaying himself open every time he shared them.

 

Part of Phil wanted to tell Clint it was okay, that he didn’t have to share this with him.  After all, Phil had stumbled in on this one completely by accident.  But he also knew that he’d given Clint an out.  Would have never mentioned it if Clint had hidden away the sketchpad when Phil went for his beer and never would have sought answers without permission.  And part of Phil, a big part if he was being honest, really wanted to know.

 

His gasp, small as it was, came completely unbidden.  He registered that it caused Clint to grimace, just a little bit, but he was so caught up in the page on Clint’s lap that he couldn’t have stopped it if he wanted to. 

 

Nearly the entire sheet was filled with different vignettes -- realistic, beautiful renderings of people.  A couple sharing a secret smile over coffee in one corner; a close-up of hands, fingers laced together, near the middle; two elderly men sharing a park bench.

 

“I, um, I like to watch people,” Clint said quietly.

 

Phil met his eyes and gave him a small smile.  “I know.”

 

“When I was little, I, well, I guess as an adult, too, I never really learned how people are supposed to interact.  I figured out pretty quickly that my parents and Barney weren’t exactly the best models for interpersonal relationships.  So, I just, I watched.  I tried to learn that way.  Didn’t take, obviously, but never shook the habit.”  Clint shrugged and Phil refrained from tackling him to the couch and smothering him with the affection he deserved.

 

“Clint, these are, you’re very gifted.”

 

Clint started to shake his head and Phil put a hand on his cheek, making him meet his eyes.  “I’m not just saying that.  These are brilliant, beautiful.”  He paused, not sure if he should voice his question.  “How long have you—”

 

“I had an art teacher, in elementary school.  Her name was Ms. Whitwright.  She told me I had an eye for likenesses, even gave me a crappy little drawing pad and pencils.  She was probably just trying to give the dumb kid in class some confidence about something, but it worked for awhile.”  He twirled the pencil around his thumb.  “Anyway, I, uh, I nearly filled that drawing pad.  Snuck a flashlight into my room and I’d hide under the covers after everyone was asleep and just draw until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”

 

Clint paused so Phil leaned forward to grab his beer and take a carefully measured sip.  He turned Clint’s direction when he sat back, resting an arm along the back of the couch behind Clint, but careful not to touch.

 

“My dad was in my room one day, probably looking for alcohol he’d hidden there, and found it.  He got pissed I was keeping good paper from him when it was the middle of winter and we couldn’t afford to turn on the heat.”  He absently touched a scar near his hairline that Phil always suspected was the result of a broken bottle.  “Made me burn each page in our makeshift fireplace.”  Clint shook his head a tiny bit, pulling himself back from the memory.  “I didn’t draw much after that.  But on that Paris op a few years ago we saw those street artists—” Phil nodded, he remembered that op, Clint was shot through his shoulder on that op “—and I figured that since I had a paycheck of my own I could buy a decent pad and some pencils, see if I could still do it.”

 

“I’d say yes, yes you can.”

 

Clint smiled and looked at his lap.  “It’s calming, at least.  I can kind of clear my head when I do it.  Only think about the lines on the page.”

 

“They really are beautiful.  You’re very talented.”  He wondered, for a second, if he could find the teacher who’d tried to help him all those years ago.  Thank her for trying when everyone else turned a blind eye.  It was, at least, a more productive train of thought than the overwhelming rage at Clint’s parents for nearly defeating every innate gift their son had to offer.  He couldn’t teach a dead man a lesson, so he did his best to foster the glimpses Clint let him see.

 

Clint grinned and bumped Phil’s shoulder.  “This is totally feeding into your Cap fetish, huh?”

 

Phil rolled his eyes.  “I do not have a fetish.”

 

“Uh huh, you don’t suddenly find me hotter because I can draw like Captain America?”

 

“Captain America drew comics.”

 

“Do you want me to put on a Cap costume and then watch me while I draw?”

 

“Shut up, Clint.” He quickly, and carefully, pulled the sketchpad from Clint’s hand and set it on the coffee table before crowding Clint into the arm of the couch, hindering any further harassment the most effective way he knew how.

 

The next day, Phil walked into his office after a meeting to find a folded piece of thick drawing paper on top of his desk.  He picked it up, careful to handle it only by the edges.  Filling the page was an incredible rendering of clasped hands resting on a bed.  A hospital bed, if the IV line marring one arm was any indication.  The other hand was clearly his own –- carefully drawn crisp shirtsleeves and his favorite cufflink covering his wrist, his fingers gently covering Clint’s bandaged ones.

 

In the bottom corner of the page it was dated nearly two years ago, and in quotes, above his signature, Clint had named it “The Paris Op.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if I need to warn for any other triggers. This is my first work for this pairing/fandom/A03, so help out the new kid if you can see that I need it. Thanks!


End file.
